


at the end of the word, home

by Kt_fairy



Series: your hand is always reaching back towards me [2]
Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Lip IS the mom friend, M/M, Mentioned Injury, Period Typical Attitudes, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Sexual Content, Speirs is a dweeb with no chill, canonical typical stealing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-04-14
Updated: 2018-04-14
Packaged: 2019-04-21 12:59:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,111
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14285445
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kt_fairy/pseuds/Kt_fairy
Summary: “I can’t say I was ever one for tales of dashing young men running headlong into danger and letting their idealistic heart get them into trouble."





	at the end of the word, home

**Author's Note:**

> This is a companion piece to [ _your hand is always reaching back towards me_](https://archiveofourown.org/works/13543560), so please go and read that fic first otherwise parts of this won't make sense.
> 
> Also thanks again so much to [ SledgeHammer](http://www.captain-sofa.tumblr.com/) for fixing my over-written bits and making me use full-stops.

 

 

 **Toccoa** \- _**1942**_

 

 Carwood couldn't say when he first saw Lieutenant Speirs. He could remember the first time he’d met the man, recalling the sunset and an offer of candy, but there was no clear moment he could point to and say that was his first memory of him.

 

 He was aware of the officers in the other companies, as an NCO he had to be, but he was too busy to give them much of his attention. What with the trouble Easy got into on a regular basis (sometimes merited, often not), and the fall out from Sobel’s punishments - be it defeat, or anger, or the men's frustrated, embarrassed tears - he was a little preoccupied.

 

 But the Lieutenant did catch his attention. Whether it was because he was always a little apart from the others in Dog, or that he felt the weight of his attention on him at the ranges or during PT, he couldn't say. Their acquaintance was a surprise but a welcome one, and for more than just the unexpected items Speirs would occasionally produce out of his pockets without comment.

  
  
 Carwood was only half listening to Muck and Malarkey’s ramblings about baseball as they made their way back to barracks after latrine duty, smiling to himself when George started narrating their conversation. He happened to catch sight of Lieutenant Speirs leaning against the side of the cookhouse, his cap set at an exact yet jaunty angle, like he knew how handsome he was but didn't really care, sipping on a cup of coffee as he watched the comings and goings of the camp. 

 

 His eyes flicked over to meet Carwood's almost as if he sensed his gaze, nodding at him before returning the salute they gave as they strode past, the boys starting their chatter up again once they were out of earshot.

 

“Not gonna go say Hi to your buddy?” George said in a low voice at Carwood's shoulder, grinning when he pretended not to be startled by him.

 

“Not when I've got you lot to shepheard.”

 

“Us?,” George did a bad job of looking innocent. “Docile as lambs Lip you know us.”

 

“Sure.”

 

 George almost put his hands in his pockets then seemed to remember he was in the army, walking alongside Carwood and smoking in silence until they got to their barracks. “You going to go see him tonight?”

 

 Carwood paused at the foot of the steps, letting Muck and Malarkey stomp past them as he turned to George. ”It's not planned. If he happens to be walking when I am…”

 

“Sure, sure. I get you Lip,” George took the cigarette from his mouth to tap away the ash. “Just wondering how he knows to keep your pocket full of candy.”

 

“...Just what are you getting at?”

 

 George squinted down the path they'd just come up as he smacked Carwood on the arm. “Making sure Dog aren't tryin’ to poach our best man.”

 

“Yeaaah. All right. Go on get ya'self on in there,” Carwood gave his head a gentle shove that turned into a hair ruffle, George laughing as he hopped up the steps ahead of him.

 

 No sooner had Carwood reached his bed than there was a rapid banging on the back wall, the signal sending everyone into a whirlwind of activity before they jumped to attention as Sobel burst through the door.

 

 He stopped into the middle of the hut, eyes flicking over every man there, daring them to catch his eye, before strolling up to Carwood.

 

“Sergeant Lipton.”

 

“Sir.”

  

 Sobel looked him up and down critically as he began to circle. “You are a  _Non_ -commissioned officer in _my_ company, are you not?”

 

 “Yes Sir.”

 

“Then why have you been consulting with officers of _Dog_ company?”

 

“A coincidence of habit, Sir.”

 

“ _Coincidence_ of _habit._ And what exactly does that meant, Sergeant?”

 

“We happen to take walks at the same time, sir.”

 

“I expect you to give your all in the exercises I give you as your duty is to set an example to _my_ men.”

 

“I always attempt to do my very best, sir.”

 

“Then why is it you have the energy to stroll around chattingat the end of my days?”

 

 He didn't truth be told. He ached from brain to feet every evening, body so tired it didn't even know it was anymore. But he daren't tell Sobel that. Just like he daren't tell him the reason he wandered around the camp at the end of the day was to give the men a moment's rest from superiors and military discipline. Even if it was only for half an hour.

 

 Sobel had Carwood backed into a corner and he knew it.

 

“Seeing as Sergeant Lipton does not find my training hard enough you will all run Curahee,” Sobel declared to a silent groan from the men. “Three miles up. Three miles down," he called over his shoulder as he strode smartly down the steps, the groan becoming audible as everyone sagged out of attention.

 

 Carwood screwed his eyes shut and swore under his breath, turning towards the men who were managing to make getting changed look sullen. “I'm sorry boys”.

 

“Don't worry about it Lip,” Penkala said as he dragged off his shirt.

 

“Yeah don't worry about it. He's just looking for excuses to make us run up and down that fucking hill”, Luz agreed, pulling a face at the ingrained sweat stains on his PT shirt. “Someone should tell him we're paratroopers not fucking mountain goats.”

 

“He's just mad he can't work out where we keep getting all the contraband from,” Muck exaggerated glancing around before leaning in to stage whisper, “Speaking of, any chance of getting me a Hershey bar?”

 

 That made everyone laugh, breaking the sour mood that had been settling in.

 

“Get dressed ya wise-ass,” Carwood sighed, smiling when they all started putting in their orders and calling one another wise-asses.

 

 He got them all changed and moving with time to spare, letting Joe and Luz lead the way to the parade square. He kept his eyes down when they passed where Lieutenant Speirs was still leaning, and that sat uneasily with him all the up and down Curahee. His duty was to the men in Easy, Sobel was right about that, but who the hell was he to dictate who Carwood was allowed to speak to in his free time?

 

 He ended up stewing on it all the way through the rapid showers, their tank recognition lecture, and corralling the boys for dinner. It all came down to what George had been getting at, those guys no-one spoke about who would disappear behind the half built huts at night. It wasn't like that with the lieutenant (even though he wasn't sure what it was like), but the suspicion of that, especially with  someone like Sobel, could get them both into a lot of trouble.

 

 If he had been a sensible man he would have kept his head down a while to let Sobel's attention shift onto something else. Speirs was an officer after all and  _not_ his concern. He went for a walk to think it all over, half hoping that his mind would be made up for him by wether he ran into Speirs or not. He was not an indecisive man, but what he felt and what he knew to be the right thing to do seldom were at such odds.

 

 He rounded a corner while deep in though and pulled up short when he caught a chain-smoking Speirs by surprise, something close to relief flashing across the Lieutenants face when he smiled at him.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

 **Liverpool Docks** \- **September 19 _43_**

 

 They had hit the rain on the approach to Ireland, the heavy grey clouds stretching far past the horizon. There was no end to them on shore either, the cloud low as the steady drizzle soaked the endless stream of men disembarking from the ship, faces tucked into the collars of their coats to try and keep the weather away.

 

 Sobel was yelling about that and something to do with the state of their kit-bags, Carwood had learned to drown him out months ago. Instead he was listening to the rain patter against his helmet as he stood with Lieutenant Welsh on one side and Speirs on the other, the both of them smoking to keep the chill away.

 

 He glanced over his shoulder at the men who were huddled under the narrow stoop of the warehouse that ran along the dockside. They were packed together to keep out of the rain, a sea of kharki and helmets, and huddled further into his jacket.

 

 A line of warmth pressed gently against his arm and Carwood glanced past the rim of his helmet at Speirs who was frowning through the rain to look up at the ship. “They did say it rains a lot over here.”

 

“You telling me it doesn't rain plenty in Boston, sir?”

 

 Speirs shot him a look, a ghost of a smile pulling at his mouth. “I'd offer you a drink to keep the cold away if you'd take it.”

 

 Carwood fingered the strap of the rifle slung upside down over his shoulder to keep the rain out of the barrel, feeling Sobel's nasal voice go right through him. “That's very decent of you, sir.”

 

 Speirs blinked, digging around in his jacket to pull out a fine looking flask in a leather case that looked a lot like the one a Captain in First Battalion had lost a few days ago. He flicked it open with a sharp, economical movement and held it out, blowing a stream of smoke away from Carwood's face as he watched him take a sip.

 

 It wasn't as strong as the stuff George had slipped him that one time but it still burnt on the way down. Carwood took a deep breath of damp air and blew it out quickly to try and keep a shudder away as he handed the flask back.

 

 Speirs seemed to consider it a beat before closing it up and tucking the flask back into his jacket, gaze never leaving Carwood’s face. “Warmer?” he asked quietly.

 

“Thank you, sir.”

 

“Hey Speirs”, Lieutenant Welsh piped up from behind Carwood. “Did I see you disappear a flask just now?”

 

 Speirs eyes stayed on Carwood as he said a blunt, “No”, putting the cigarette back between his lips as he turned to face forward.

 

 Welsh was frowning when Carwood glanced at him. He shrugged a shoulder when Welsh rolled his eyes and they all turned back to looking at the ship while huddling in the rain, Speirs arm still pressed against his.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**York station -  April _1944_**

 

 Meehan was as much a sigh of relief as a breath of fresh air; their footlockers were no longer rifled through weekly, battlefield exercises were no-longer an embarrassment, moral was high, and everyone had more weekend passes than they knew what to do with.

 

 Well, the boys did know what to do with them. Go to London to get drunk and flirt with girls, go to Brighton to get drunk and sunburnt, or go to Portsmouth to get drunk and fight sailors. Not that Carwood was above some of that when the occasion called for it, rank or no, but it was not usually his idea of a good time.

 

 His Mamma said he had always been curious as a boy and it had made him a little terror, always with his nose in things he shouldn’t and causing all kinds of mischief. He was a Paratrooper now so there was still mischief to get into, but at least his curiosity had been honed and, some would say, refined with age and responsibility. He found he greatly appreciated museums and galleries and the like. He appreciated them even more in the quiet, thoughtful company of Lieutenant Speirs.

 

 Their connecting train from York to London had been delayed to allow a convoy of War Office trains a clean run to their destination. With chits in their pockets from the station master they set up shop at a Lyons Tea House to have lunch in the meantime. Speirs smoking leisurely while Carwood looked through a book by Sir Walter Scott the Lieutenant had picked up on their visit to Edinburgh (not taking full advantage of Uncle Sam paying the bill to send them all the way over to here would be a real shame).

 

“How do you find the bread?” Speirs asked, cigarette dangling from his fingers as he sat with his chair at an angle to the table, legs crossed lazily like a he should be on a movie poster or in a magazine selling something stylish.

 

“It’s a little strange,” Carwood admitted as he nudged the plate of sandwiches. “But they’re on such strict rationing over here I suppose it would be.”

 

 Speirs hummed in agreement, blowing out a long stream of smoke as his eyes flicked around the crowded tea room. “I’m glad we didn’t go to the medical museum.”

 

“Hmm?”

 

 Speirs tapped the ash off in the tray between them. “I said I’m glad we didn’t go to the medical museum.”

 

“Oh, I thought you wanted to look at it?”

 

 Speirs glanced at Carwood then around the room again, considering his cigarette for a moment before looking at him again. “I...thought it might be useful to get used to things like that for when we deploy, but now I think about it I’d rather not think of men in terms of specimens in jars.”

 

 Carwood considered that. He saw the sense in wanting to be prepared for what war did to a body, but if he had known that was why Speirs had wanted to visit that museum he would have refused. “I wouldn’t what the image of what might happen distracting from what I need to do. It doesn’t do to dwell on such things, we’ll handle it when it happens.”

 

 Speirs stared at him unblinking. “You ever fear you’ll freeze?”

 

“If I’m thinking about what I need to do then I hope I won’t.”

 

 Speirs nodded, stubbing out his cigarette and taking a sip of tea. “You’re quite right, Sergeant. You enjoying the book?”

 

“I can’t say I was ever one for tales of dashing young men heading off into danger and letting their idealistic heart get them into trouble but...this seems interesting. I can see why he’s an author that has lasted.”

 

 Speirs looked down at his tea, seeming to consider something. “What makes you find this character different?”

 

“He…” Carwood started, pausing to chose his words as he watched Speirs carefully blank face, “...seems earnest in his endeavours. He isn’t flighty and is never presented as being perfect. It makes him more likeable. His heart is honest if not wise, but that’s not always bad thing.”

 

 Speirs held his gaze before nodding, sipping his tea as he motioned to the book. “You can keep it if you like.”

 

“You just bought it.”

 

“On a whim. I shouldn’t have the free time to read it.”

 

“You better not run yourself into the ground.” Carwood warned, tacking on a hasty ‘sir’ that made a smile tick at Speirs’ mouth.

 

“I won’t.”

 

“Hmm. Your word is as good as a promise I suppose, and I shan’t pester an officer.”

 

 Speirs raised an amused eyebrow. “You suppose?”

 

“I won’t be accused of flattery,” Carwood said archly and Speirs smiled outright, the corners of his eyes crinkling in a way that was downright charming. Carwood reached for his cup to distract himself from it, not sure he’d ever believe himself if he tried to pass off a gulp of hot tea as the cause of the gentle warmth settling in his chest.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Normandy - June _1944_**

 

 Stepping out of a plane into the pitch black void lit up with burning planes, deafened by the wind and the engines and the bright explosions, should have terrified Carwood. Any man who wasn’t scared didn’t have his senses about him. But there was a whole plane of men who depended on him, a Jumpmaster with no more experience than them, to keep a cool head.

 

 It was his duty to get them out of the plane as smooth and as safely as was in his power to do so, and he did. Once they were falling through the chaotic night sky it was up to God and Luck to get them to the ground in one piece.

 

 His responsibilities helped him remain calm even when he landed on his own in the middle of enemy territory not knowing where the hell he was; responsibility to get back to his unit, for the two wide eyed kids from the 82nd who looked ready to follow him all around Normandy like ducklings. Responsibility to keep the wound up, exhausted, scared men Winters collected on their way to the rally point from shooting anything that moved - including one another.

 

“Bill”, he said quietly, slowing his pace so they dropped off the back of the column wandering through the French countryside. “You need to calm down.”

 

“I don’t know if you noticed Sarge but we’re in the middle of bastard kraut…”

 

“I know. We all know. But you taking it out your own side isn’t going to help.”

 

 Bill pulled up short and jabbed a finger in Winter’s direction. “You really trust a fucking Quaker to get us out of here alive?”

 

“Yes, I do. Now shut up and do your job before you get yourself or someone else killed.”

 

 He stared right back at Bill’s glare, knowing he was professional enough not try anything with him. His brother had died, and he felt real bad for him about that, but they were in occupied Europe and Carwood’s responsibility was to all the men in his care. If that meant telling off a man in the first sharp throws of greif then he’d just have to do it.

 

 Fear had been on the back burner from the moment he had crawled into the C-47. He was vaguely aware of it but did not have the time to let it settle in. No sooner had they found the rest of Second Battalion than they were taking out the German guns blowing the crap out of Utah beach. Lieutenant Speirs running headlong into enemy fire and somehow coming out of it waving back at Winters like he'd just spotted a friend across the street.

 

 Carwood was careful to step over the bodies littering the slip trench as he made his way to the third gun, the TNT clutched tightly in his hands. He flopped back onto the sandbags next to Speirs who was emptying a clip at the Germans in the far treeline without a care for the fact he’d lost his helmet.

 

“TNT sir!”

 

“It got a fuse?” Speirs barked as he took them off him, something wild in his overly bright eyes.

 

“Yes sir.”

 

“Cover me!” He ordered, barely waiting for Carwood to start firing before he leapt up to shove all the TNT down the barrel. He bundled them both behind the gun, tucking himself behind Carwood who was staring down at the dent in the scorched earth from where a grenade had almost blown bits of Speirs into the trees.

 

 The TNT went off with such a bang it made Carwood’s ears ring, the shock wave rattling the teeth in his head and knocking Speirs into his back. He blinked up at the gun when Speirs straightened and started firing again, unsurprised that the barrel was just plain gone. The gunfire finally cut through the ringing in his ears and Carwood grabbed Speirs by the back of his jacket, dragging him out of the gun position and into the treeline, ducking down to scoop up Speirs' helmet from where it had rolled.

 

“I think you’ll be needing this,” Carwood panted when the crack of gunfire was far enough away that bullets no longer whizzed past. He reached up to drop the helmet onto Speirs’ head without thinking, snatching his hands back when he realised what he’d done. “Sir.”

 

 Speirs’ shoulders were pulled into a tight line as he tipped the helmet forward, shadowing his eyes as they scanned everything except Carwood. He looked like he was about to speak when a shout from Buck to call everyone in had them whipping around, both still on edge from the fight. He glanced back at Carwood before they set off to rally to Winters for the trek back to St. Marie, the boys regaling Carwood with tales of Malarkey’s stupidity and laughing when it got him a talking to.

  
  
 They were picking their way through someone’s vegetable garden when Speirs fell in next to him, head bowed and Thompson slung casually over his shoulder as if he’d carried one his whole life. The tension in his posture and in the depths of his eyes loosening in the short conversation about nothing they shared before parting ways.

  

 That they had not spoken since that day was far down on the list of things on Carwood's mind as there was a deafening rush of air and the sensation of the ground falling out from under his feet that ended when he slammed into something hard enough to knock his helmet off, only realising it had been a brick wall when Talbert came scrambling up to him.

 

 He was dazed more than anything. Aware of the pain all over in a vague, dream like way until he caught sight of the blood on his pants and all the fear he hadn’t been feeling for days came rushing forward so suddenly it took his breath away.

 

 It didn’t matter that he knew his legs were stretched out unharmed across the cobblestones, in that moment all he could see was the chewed up flesh and shattered bone of so many wounds. It had only been week and he had seen so many men fall down dead in front of him, so many torn up bodies. He wasn’t even thinking about his faculties until Tab ripped open his pants to check on them and all he could do was dumbly nod as he was helped to his feet and off into an ambulance.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Train to Aldbourne - June _1944_**

 

 Winters saw the man, straight backed like a soldier with the sleeve of his civilian jacket pinned to his shoulder, on the platform when their train pulled into the rural station. He had stood to board the train, saw it packed with soldiers and sat again, Winters disembarking to offer to help him bring his bags on board.

 

 The men parted respectfully for him as Winters lead him to the less crowded compartment Carwood was in, catching his eye as George leapt to his feet to offer the man his seat between Carwood and the window.

 

“I couldn’t possibly…” the man started but George waved him down.

 

“I’ve been sitting down since I got on the boat from France. Do me good to stretch my legs for a bit. How many stops you got? Let the Sarge take your bags, he needs the exercise he's been laying about in hospital,” George said rapidly, not leaving enough of a pause for disagreement as he hustled the man to his seat as Carwood stowed his cases in the overhead shelf.

 

“Thank you.”

 

“You’re welcome sir. We got some beer given to us at Dover I hope you don’t mind us drinking it?”

 

“No, you go ahead,” he said, refusing the bottle Perconte offered him. “You were in hospital?” he asked Carwood when he sat next to him.

 

“Nothing serious. Minor shrapnel wounds,” Carwood was quick to say, slightly embarrassed by the itchy scar on his face and the still tender wound on his inner thigh when faced with this man’s greying hair and missing arm.

 

“I’d hate for you to damage yourself hauling my bag about when you’ve just got out.”

 

“He’s made of stern stuff. He’s a paratrooper,” George said, knocking Carwood on the shoulder.

 

“You’re the ones who jump out of airplanes?”

 

“Sure are, sir.”

 

“My word...I could never work out if you were all very brave for doing that or little mad.”

 

“We’d say both, but if you ask someone else they might say we’re mad.”

 

 The man smiled. “When I went out to France in nineteen-sixteen we barely had airplanes, and now they're throwing bombs and men and all sorts out of them.”

 

 George held court for a little while as the man sat quietly listening to them all talk, turning slightly to Carwood to speak to him in a low voice. “All those people who know things have been saying the Gerries have been on the brink of throwing up their hands as soon as all you boys landed over there.”

 

“They have been saying that, sir.”

 

“But they aren’t are they.”

 

 Carwood shook his head. “Not nearly.”

 

 The man glanced around the carriage before speaking quietly again. “Took half the world four years to end the last war. I do hope the fighting in Europe won’t take four years this time.”

 

 Carwood looked the man in the eye and saw something there he could recognise and hoped to God he would never know well. Of dead friends and those he wished had died quicker, of the cold and the wet and a bone deep terror that could never be forgotten.

 

“It’s what we’re all trying for, sir.”

 

 The man looked out of the window a for little while at the flowering hedgerows around the rolling fields of yellow wheat. “I suppose this doesn’t look much like home to you lads does it?” he said loudly enough so more than Carwood might hear him.

 

“Not much,” George said, “but it’s friendly.”

 

 The man nodded, seemingly pleased to hear that. “As long as we’re treating you well.”

 

“The reception's been swell,” Joe Toye piped up, tilting one of the beer bottles at him.

 

“That’s good. So tell me, what’s it like to leap from an airplane?”

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

 **Holland** \- **September** _**1944**_

 

 Carwood turned at the loud thud from behind him, scrambling over to where Bill and Malarkey were trying to haul Buck to his feet without catching any of the few stray bullets whizzing past. He batted Malarkey out of the way, gripping Buck by the straps of his webbing to haul him off the door they’d been dragging him on and behind the shelter of the tank sitting diagonally across the road.

 

“Where’s he hit?”

 

“The ass.”

 

 Carwood looked up from Buck’s ashen face. “What!?”

 

“He got shot in the ass!”

 

“Oh,” he blinked at Malarky, then turned back to Buck. “Let’s get you to a truck.”

 

“As fun as all that was I’d rather not be dragged over there, Lip,” Buck joked in a hollow voice, using Bill as a crutch as they all helped him to his feet. He was a big, heavy guy and Carwood, the only one strong enough to take his weight, took his time half hauling him over to the waiting truck the men were piling in to.

 

 Many hands helped lift Buck into the back, Bill making sure his hastily applied bandages didn’t slip as he climbed up after him.

 

“Hey Buck,” Carwood patted him on the leg, “first time I’ve seen one bullet make four holes.”

 

 Buck stared at him with almost unseeing eyes, only laughing when Bill started cackling next to him as the truck lurched off towards the rear positions.

 

 Carwood stayed until Winters told him to get back and organise the men. He hopped up into the last truck getting out of there,  watching with a cold feeling settling in his stomach as the men of the rearguard scrambled for defensive positions to stop the SS division chasing them back up the road and straight out of Holland.

 

“Well,” Shifty sighed from somewhere behind him. “I can’t say as that went well.”

 

“Fucking shit show,” Grant agreed.

 

“The rest of second Battalion are holding the bridges, boys. All’s not lost,” Carwood found himself saying, glancing over his shoulder at the men slumped on the benches.

 

“Speirs is with ‘em, he’s probably killed half the German army by now”, Luz drawled, knocking Carwood’s shoulder with his knee. There was a nervous clench in his stomach and he straightened to try and shift it, trying not to think about the violence of the ambush they had just narrowly escaped or the memory of Speirs running at that gun in Normandy. “And any of his own men not willing to follow him.”

 

“His own men?” one of the replacements - Garcia - asked and was immediately regaled with the varied and outlandish stories of what ‘Killer’ Speirs was supposed to have gotten up to in Normandy.

 

 Carwood kicked his heels against the dropped tailgate and shook his head at Luz’s ever growing tall tales. By rights he should stop them, he usually did when he caught them spreading rumours and exaggerations, but he did not have the heart to right now. What with Bull missing and seven dead, speeding away from their target with their tail between their legs, they need to be distracted for a moment. He hoped - he _knew -_ Speirs would understand.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

 **Bastogne** \- **last days of _1944_**

 

 There was a crunch of a boot breaking through a frozen patch of snow and Carwood looked up from where he was letting out his laces, expecting Doc Roe coming to check that he was doing just that or one of the boys swinging by for a talk. He listened for the usual confident, stomping footfall of his men in their own lines, hand going to the rifle propped up beside him when all he heard was the heavy silence of someone moving quietly.

 

 He recognised the smooth gate of the silhouette before he recognised the person. He let go of his rifle to start on the other boot, taking care so as not to snap the laces as a new set would not be easy to come by what with the 101st being cut off from the main army like it was.

 

 The almost silent footsteps came to stop at the edge of his foxhole and Carwood looked all the way up at the shadowy figure standing over him.

 

 “Lieutenant.”

 

“First Sergeant.”

 

 Speirs shifted on his feet, his mouth, the only part of his face visible under the shadow from his helmet, twisting over something before he dropped down into the foxhole next to Carwood, knocking out a cigarette to smoke quietly as he watched him re-tie his laces.

 

“Your medic tell you to do this to keep away frostbite, sir?” Carwood asked, slackened boots feeling strange as he wiggled his toes to get the blood flowing to his feet.

 

“Yes.”

 

“And do you do it?” Carwood looked over at Speirs who smiled around the cigarette between his lips.

 

“I do.”

 

“I don’t as often as I should,” Carwood said conspiratorially, pulling his knees up to his chest to try and contain his body heat. “I spend most of my time doing follow ups for our Doc, making sure the boys are doing it, and then some of them started on at me.”

 

 To attend to his laces Carwood had set his gloves, the very same ones Speirs had handed to him weeks ago in Mourmelon, beside him on a clear patch earth. Speirs noticed them and leant over to pick them up as he stubbed out his cigarette in the snow. “I always found that with First Sergeants,” he said, running his fingers over the sturdy material before handing them over. “With the good one’s their men start to look to their welfare.”

 

 Carwood hoped the cold would hide the heat spreading across his face as he pulled the gloves on. “Flattery usually means someone wants something.”

 

“I don’t mind being accused of flattery,” Speirs said in a low voice, staring unblinking at Carwood when he looked over at him.

 

“Oh.”

 

 Speirs gaze snapped away as if something had caught his attention, searching through his pack and pulling out a slightly battered looking bar of chocolate.

 

“What the…” Carwood started, having to make an effort to keep his voice down. “How on God’s green earth did you get your hands on that?!”

 

“I’ve had it since Normandy.”

 

“Normandy?”

 

“Yes,” Speirs said as he held out the chocolate like he expected Carwood to take it. “You mentioned you wanted some European chocolate and I found some so I kept it to give to you. It’s obviously been a while, but its worked out as a belated Christmas present if you’d like.”

 

“Sir, I…” Carwood took it more carefully than the ripped and crumpled wrapper warranted, his chest doing something funny as he looked at Speirs whose face was also doing something funny. “...Thank you. And here’s me with nothing to give you.”

 

“Until I saw you a few weeks ago in Mourmelon I thought...I heard you were in hospital.”

 

 Carwood frowned, not sure what that had to do with the chocolate. “For a couple weeks, sure.”

 

“I heard you’d been in a blast and I thought you were badly hurt.”

 

“The whole thing looked worse than it turned out to be, sir, by all accounts. Whoever told you should have said so, the boys all knew not long after that I was fine.”

 

 Speirs looked around, discomfort in every line of his body and Carwood was worried he had said something wrong when Speirs looked at him again. “Luz told me the day after we took Carentan.”

 

 Carwood let the fact that Speirs had been carrying this around since Normandy under the impression that he had been terribly wounded sink in. His own fears at that time came flooding back and he felt his jaw clench against it, gripping the chocolate tightly in his hands.

 

 There had been a swell of something between them for a good while, something not so wholly unknown to Carwood that he did not recognise it but, well, it usually wasn’t directed at a fella.

 

 He looked around at the gloom between the snow covered trees. This could very well be where they all died, either from a bullet or of starvation if things carried on like this, and he wanted to say something about whatever this was out loud before it was too late.

 

 And yet the danger of the situation they were in meant there was no time for such things. Neither of them could afford such a distraction when success and death were both teetering on the same knife edge. So he took a deep breath, putting it all away for the time being, knowing full well he might live regret doing so a week from now, a day from now. An hour from now.

 

 But that did not mean he could not pull the blanket bundled up at the other end of the foxhole to cover them like he would for any of his men. “Stay a moment and have a share.”

 

 Speirs nodded, the both of them sat in silence as they let what heat there was in their mouths dissolve some of the sugary, smooth chocolate on their tongues.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

 **Hagenau** - **February** ** _1945_**  

 

 He had not eased awake in a good while. For as long as he could remember he had been snapping into consciousness to someone calling him or to gunfire, or, more recently, to his own coughing.

 

 It took him a moment to realise he was in fact awake the room was so still. He listened intently for sounds of gunfire from that goddamn patrol, but instead caught the gentle rustling of someone trying to breathe quietly.

 

 He turned to check on Ron who had insisted on taking the floor. Carwood expected him to be passed out on the bare floorboards but instead he was sat in the chair next to the bed, what moonlight there was slanting through the thin curtains and catching the stillness of his face.

 

“Go back to sleep.”

 

“What’s happened?”

 

 Ron breathed deeply, the chair creaking softly under him. “Jackson’s dead.”

 

 Carwood had known one of them wouldn’t return. They had wanted to get it over with too quickly, were too tired, too sure of themselves after their successes in the break-out from Bastogne.

 

“Take your boots off,” he said, shifting to make room.

 

 Ron continued to stare at him, finally blinking as he bent to pull them off. “I’ll take the wall side, you stay put.”

 

 Carwood did as he was told, fighting down a shiver as he pulled aside all the blankets George had piled on him, throat burning as a stab in his chest set him off coughing.

 

 It hurt, sure it did, but he was more fed up with the sound of his own coughing than the whole fucking war right now. He let Ron carefully pull him up so he was sitting to help ease the pressure on his chest. “Goddammit,” he wheezed, reaching for the canteen set on the table next to the bed, the icy water soothing his throat and chest even though it set him to shivering again.

 

“All right?”

 

 Carwood nodded, taking even breaths as Ron carefully clambered over him, body a buffer of warmth against the cold radiating from the wall as he settled in. He lay there, eyes dark and hair curling against his forehead like something from a painting, looking up at Carwood who was very aware of how sallow and feverish he was. He remained sitting to make sure he wasn’t going to set himself off coughing again before laying down on his side facing away from Ron’s gaze. He had not meant it as an invitation for Ron to curl up behind him but did not mind when he rolled into his side and did just that.

 

 They lay listening to one another's breathing and the odd voice sounding in the distance until Ron edged even closer, his knees bumping the backs of Carwood's legs. He rested his hand heavily on Carwood's back as he let out a ragged breath, his inhale sharp before his breath came ragged again. Carwood made to turn to him, all self-consciousness forgotten, but Ron pressed against his ribs to hold him still.

 

“Ron?”

 

“Just...be here.”

 

“Okay,” Carwood breathed, shifting so he could rest his hand over the one laying on his ribs. Ron’s breathing soon gentled again, hair ticking the back of Carwood’s neck when he leant his forehead there. They lay together, trying to match their uneven breaths as Ron ran his hand over Carwood’s back, the soothing motion easing his tired, aching body back to sleep.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Mourmelon - March _1945_**

 

 As far as Carwood was concerned he hadn't been this dry, this warm, this well fed, and, frankly, this healthy in recent memory. He didn't even mind that it was tipping it down outside, men scampering backwards and forwards between the tents and temporary buildings, glad that the Lieutenant’s pip on his collar meant he hadn't been outside taking the men on an exercise when the dark crowds rolled in.

 

 He took a sip of bitter army coffee, watching the dull grey scene from behind the plastic windows of the quiet officers Mess, listening to the rain on the roof and the pat, pat, pat from where it leaked.

 

 The figures that had been hesitating in the doorway of Battalion HQ for the past few minutes suddenly made a break for it. One, whose long legged stride marked him out to be Major Winters, headed off towards the Armoury with Nixon at his heels cussing up such a storm that Carwood could almost hear him.

 

 The other moved at a much more leisurely pace towards the mess, Carwood turning just as Ron burst through the door in a shower of raindrops. “If Europe's not trying to freeze us it’s trying to drown us,” he declared as he threw his drenched jacket and cap down onto the chair by the stove, pushing his his wet, curling hair out of his eyes as they fell on Carwood.

 

 He almost pulled his hand out of his pocket in reflex to being in front of a senior officer but stopped himself, knowing it was the right thing to do when what passed for a pleased look crossed Ron's face.

 

“Coffee?” Carwood offered, holding up his mug.

 

“I'll get it. You stay put,” Ron said, already moving over to the pot sat on the stove. The rain had soaked through his jacket and into his shirt, making it cling to his shoulders and the swell of his biceps. Carwood dragged his eyes away and went back to his coffee.

 

 Ron stepped up to the window next to Carwood, the damp smell of his uniform overpowering the fresh scent of rain on his skin and Carwood glanced over to find Ron already looking at him. “I'm supposed to be in a meeting with Winters and Nixon but I saw you at the window and made an excuse to come join you instead.”

 

“You shouldn't do that,” Carwood shook his head and Ron frowned, looking down at the mug cupped in his hands until Carwood bumped their shoulders. “Not that I don't mind having your company.”

 

 Ron made a pleased noise, turning to the window and sipping his coffee as their shoulders pressed together. Ron dropped a hand to his side, fingers brushing Carwood's pant leg and he started at how cold they were. “Heaven's sake Ron, why don't you stand by the stove!”

 

“I want to stand with you.”

 

“I'll come with you.”

 

“I want to stand here in the daylight, on view, with you.”

 

 Carwood sighed, not having the heart to argue Ron out of that and knowing the crafty sonofabitch knew that too.

 

 They stood sipping their coffee and watching the rainwater stream over the tarmac. A flash of lightning made them both start, Ron’s cold hand bumping against Carwood’s and he took it by instinct, trying to give it some warmth as he ran his thumb over his knuckles.

 

 He turned to him to say something about Ron going about Bastogne glove-less but giving himself chilblains from a thunderstorm but all words failed him at the look on Ron's face. It was almost as if he was having to restrain himself from kissing him. Carwood thought one of them would drop the other's hand in shock or embarrassment but they just held on tighter, turning back to the window as a roll of thunder crashed through the sky.

 

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Somewhere in Germany- April _1945_**

 

 Carwood sat back and stretched, linking his fingers above his head and pushing upwards until his shoulders popped and he sighed, tipping his head towards the ceiling as he sagged in his chair.

 

 Writing a lot wasn't unknown to him. He had been at College before war was declared three long years ago, but since then his mind had been turned to training and fighting and caring for the men. He hadn’t sat down to write anything in so long that writing this report was making his hand cramp.

 

 The bright side was that he wasn’t having to fight the ancient, slightly dented Army typewriter he’d had to use back in Mourmelon. He’d almost taken George up on his offer to let the Mortar boys use it as target practice and claim it had been stolen.

 

 He straightened at the sound of the back door crashing into the wall, picking up his pen and reading over what he had just written. He did not look up when Ron came striding into the room laid down with silver plate and no doubt several families prized possessions.  

 

 Ron set his findings down carefully on the other end of the table Carwood was using as a desk, hanging his Thompson over the back of a chair as he moved to take one by Carwood. “How’s it going?”

 

“I’m resigning my commission.”

 

 Ron huffed a laugh as he pulled out his cigarettes. “That’s why we get paid more,” he muttered, lighting one up and watching Carwood work.

 

 Harry came in looking for Winters, bumming a smoke off Ron while passing judgement on what he had looted before stomping off again. Winters came by not that long after looking for Harry and making a point not to acknowledge the pile of silver on the table.

 

“He just went off to Fox’s HQ looking for you.”

 

“We’ve been just missing one another all afternoon,” Winters sighed, rubbing a hand through his hair. “While I’m here I’ll take your report, Carwood.”

 

“It’s not finished.”

 

 Winters smiled, holding out his hand for it. “Seeing as you’re reporting to me I’ll let it slide.”

 

“Yes sir”, Carwood hastily signed it off before handing it over, not missing the amused look on Winters face at the obvious relief in his voice.

 

“I’ll see you both later.”

 

“Sir,” they chorused, Carwood flexing his cramped hand as he listened to Winters leave the building,

 

“I’d be lying if I said that wasn’t a relief,” Carwood said, holding his hand out for Ron’s cigarette, letting it drop to the table top when he glanced over and found Ron staring at him.

 

 His movements were always economical, always smooth, always decisive, and it took Carwood a moment to react when Ron rose in his seat and cupped his cheek. Carwood balled a hand into his shirt as his eyes darted towards the windows, “Ron..?”

 

“Breathe in slowly.”

 

“What?”

 

 Ron took a deep drag and leant forward to kiss him, licking past his lips to get him to part them before exhaling gently to pass the smoke into his mouth. Carwood almost choked, probably would have if Ron expected more from him than just breathing in. Ron pulled back to let Carwood exhale before giving him a firm peck on the lips.

 

 He was aware of how flushed he was as he pushed Ron to sit down, shaking his head at how pleased he looked with himself. “You ass”, he muttered, and Ron just smiled.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Somewhere else in Germany - April _1945_**

 

 Nixon hadn't been right since he returned from jumping over the Rhine with the 17th Airborne. The news about the operation had been censored, they could all recognise it even without Nixon's tense, staring eyes. No-one speculated, no one gossiped, just pretended not to notice him drinking himself sick every night so Nixon wouldn’t get busted down another rank.

  
  
 He had always had a tendency towards flamboyance, so there was nothing unusual about how his raised voice and flailing arms as he crossed the square while  Second Battalion loaded up. Winters, who knew Nixon's moods better than anyone, let him get on with it as he waved Carwood over to him.  
  
****

“Our orders are pretty straightforward for the time being so I want Easy to go over fighting formations, take them out on a few schemes in the evenings and mornings.”

 

“Sir.”

 

“Ride with me to the next stop off point. I want to talk about Second Platoon. With the amount of replacements they have they'll need extra training and you…”

 

 They both of started when Nixon exploded about his wife taking the dog in what appeared to be his divorce. Carwood glanced from him to Winter's unimpressed face, making a tactical retreat when Nixon ripped off his helmet and flung it onto the cobblestones.

 

 He felt a little bad that he was glad to get a reprieve from sitting in the jeep with Nixon’s weighty melancholy. He felt for the man, he really did, but his pain was nothing special in this war and the knowledge of that twisted in Carwood’s gut.

 

 He headed towards the lead truck, planning to jump up into the cab with the driver so he wouldn’t be egged on into joining the sing along currently starting up. He was almost there when Ron appeared at his shoulder, squinting against the sun as he steered Carwood towards his own Jeep.

 

“Lip!” Harry cried from the front seat. “Glad you could join us.”

 

“Thanks Harry,” Carwood said as he climbed into the back.

 

 Harry twisted around to grin at him as he nodded towards the XO’s jeep where Nixon was sitting in the back like a chastened child while Winters was in the front ignoring him. “Shame you missed out on _that_ awkward fucking ride.” 

 

“Real shame,” Carwood agreed, Ron jumping into the back of the Jeep next to him as the convoy set out.

 

 “It’s all a fucking game,” Harry muttered under his breath as he offered Ron a cigarette, smacking Carwood on the chest as he lit his own. “How’re ya lungs doing these days?”

 

“All the better for you smoking around me all the goddamn time.” He smiled when Harry laughed, the both of them laughing when Ron paused in lighting his own cigarette and tucked it behind his ear.

 

“If anyone could reform you, Sparky, it’d be our Lip,” Harry teased. He turned to lounge in the front seat, waving his cigarette around as he sung along to Blood on the Risers with great gusto.

 

 They hit the outskirts of town with everyone in fine voice, singing along to the grotesque parts with relish. Carwood found himself getting swept up in it all and joined in the chorus despite himself, jostling an amused Ron with his shoulder until he started singing too.

 

 Everyone was too busy enjoying themselves to pay any mind to the fact Easy’ CO was holding their Second Lieutenant's hand on the backseat of his jeep.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Bertesgarten - May _1945_**

 

 It was not the first time he'd been grabbed on the ass by a guy, being First Sergeant had certainly never saved him from George's fanny grabbing. The important difference in this situation being that he'd never been held in George's arms whilst kissing him when he'd been goosed.

 

 Not that Ron had goosed him of course, just rested his hand heavily on Carwood’s behind in a way that he knew should have alarmed him but it didn't. 

   
 Ron snatched his hand away without giving Carwood a chance to react, obviously agitated when Carwood sat back to look at him. The intention behind the gesture wasn't normal between men, nothing about what they were doing was ‘normal’, but Carwood wasn't sure that meant what it once had. Not after so many had endured and done things far more against nature than feeling like that - like _this-_ about a man. _Wanting_ was all apart of that feeling, and a warmth spread through him at the thought of being wanted like that.

 

 Besides, it would be silly to make a problem out of it when Carwood had been kissing him all this time.

 

 Carwood felt his face heat when he replaced Ron's hand on his behind, knowing that would do more to reassure Ron than a fumbling attempt to put all that into words. He was so concerned by Ron's obvious agitation that, at first, what he blurted out in an overly loud voice made no sense to Carwood.

 

As little as he minded Ron touching him like that, he thought that following it up with a declaration of love was pushing it. He didn't know what ‘ _doing things right_ ,’ or ‘ _showing regard through respect_ ,’ or any of the other things Ron had said to him in Hagenau meant in Boston, but in West Virginia it certainly wasn't like that.

 

 He was about to let Ron know just _how_ it was when he saw the open fear in his eyes, face stricken as he looked up at him like...Like blurting out his love was the last attempt of a man desperate not to lose something dear to him. As if Carwood would ever up and walk away from him like that.

 

 He almost laughed. Here was 'Killer' Captain Speirs, a man who had half of Second Battalion running scared, panicking because he'd got into some not so heavy petting.

 

“Do you mean it?” Carwood asked gently.

 

 Ron swallowed and sat up, back ramrod straight as he looked Carwood in the eye. “Yes I do.”

 

 Carwood caught up Ron's clenched fists in his hands and darted forward to kiss him. “I love you too,” he whispered against his lips, smiling when Ron jerked back to stare at him.

 

“Say it again.”

 

“I love you.”

 

 A rare sweet smile slipped across Ron's face, his fists loosening so he could turn his hands to clutch onto Carwood’s as he ducked his head. “That makes me very happy,” he spoke quietly, squeezing Carwood’s hands when he looked back at him. “You make me very happy.”

 

“You make me happy too.”

 

 Ron almost preened, smile turning into a grin as he pressed a kiss to Carwood’s mouth that made him sigh. A slip of tongue caught against his bottom lip as Ron let go of one of his hands to cup his cheek as he pushed closer, never demanding but always assertive. He pulled away slowly, kisses trailing off until they were breathing softly, foreheads resting together as they sat in the quiet sunshine.

 

“I really didn’t mean anything by that.”

 

“I said I don’t mind,” Carwood flopped back in the seat with a sigh, Ron’s hand still tangled up in his.

 

 Ron nodded slowly. “Most guys would swing if you did that.”

 

“Even while kissing them?”

 

“You’d be surprised.”

 

“You ever swung at a guy for that?”

 

 Ron screwed up his face and shrugged before looking at Carwood again. “I am glad you didn’t swing at me. You’d have probably knocked my teeth out.”

 

“Now you know I'm not a man to use his fists like that.”

 

“I know.”

 

“You're more worldly in these things than I am, I know that, but I'm not about to shy away from telling you no.” He traced the delicate bumps of Ron's knuckles, hoping the smile on his face wasn't too silly when he said, “Besides, I wouldn't love you if you were a _complete_ scoundrel.”

 

“Christ…” Ron muttered, surprising Carwood by surging forward and knocking them both off balance, sliding down so they ended up half laying on the backseat with their feet tangled in the footwell. Ron brushed his thumb over the scar on Carwood’s cheek, green eyes bright with intent as he kissed him. Carwood smiled when Ron pulled back to look at him one more time before kissing him again and again and again.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Zel am see - June _1945_**

 

“Lip! Hey Lip!” He turned, looking around until he saw the boys in a chalet garden, Perconte violently waving a bottle at him. “Come join us!”

 

“Whatever you got’s too strong for me,” he called back, laughing at the noise of denial that went up.

 

“It’s lemonade!” Alley yelled, which made George laugh, adjusting his grip on Malarkey who was swaying dangerously.

 

“Hey, are you keeping an eye on him or do I have to escort him back to your billet?” Carwood knew how hard the man had taken the loss of his friends, Skip especially, and was unable and unwilling to shake his Sergeants instinct to look to the men’s welfare.

 

 They all turned to look at Malarkey and Carwood sighed, jumping the low wall so he could take the bottle off Perconte, holding his hand out until Alley handed over the one he had hold of. “You’ll get these back if the only place I see him until tomorrow is asleep somewhere sensible.”

 

 Alley and Perconte mumbled something but George nodded earnestly. “We’ll look after him Lip. Don’t worry.”

 

“I know you will.”

 

“Okay Lip.”

 

“You come for a drink with us tomorrow. Keep us in line.”

 

“Sure you want an officer drinking with you?”

 

“Of course! You’re one of us!”

 

“Yeah one of us!”

 

“One of the Boys!”

 

“Curahee!”

 

“All right, as long as you get Malarkey to bed.”

 

 They managed to turn and start heading in doors, Perconte turning back to inform him. “Don’t think I’m so drunk I won’t remember you agreed!”

 

 He watched them head off, turning to slip back over the wall and get back on his way.

 

                                                           

                                                                                      *

_He had never taken a surrender before but he thought it had gone well. After the general had given his speech Carwood had directed him on where his men were to lay their weapons and give their names, promising him food would be handed out and any wounded tended to in good time._

 

_He let Babe and Johnny oversee the rifle collection, Nixon coming up to speak to the General as Carwood made his way back to the jeep. He looked up at the clear summer sky and sighed, after Bastogne he was forever grateful for every single one ._

 

_Someone fell in step next to him and he glanced over to Ron who looked peculiar in just his shirtsleeves. Carwood felt himself blush when he thought of how strange a thing that was to think when he’d seen Ron wearing a great deal less._

 

_“Meet me out by the Lake tonight.”_

 

_“If Battalion HQ can spare me,” he teased, smiling at Ron who raised an unsurprised eyebrow at him. “I knew Winters had told you.”_

 

_“He asked me who I thought should replace you.”_

 

 _Carwood knew his face fell a little at that. He was glad to be off the front line, even happier to not be transferred away, but he did not know how he could sit back while the boys were in danger if they were all shipped off_ _to the Pacific. “What’s wrong with our room in the billet?”_

 

_“We can’t be holed up in there the whole time. People will talk.”_

 

_“All right. I’ll meet you, even though I feel like you’re up to something.”_

 

 _The smile on Ron’s face was the exact one of someone up to something. “Good”, he side stepped closer so the backs of their hands brushed together. “You look very,_ very _fine in your Lieutenants uniform,” he said in an undertone before he strode away to get back to his duties, leaving Carwood flushed and cussing him out under his breath._

 

_*_

 

 

 Carwood really hoped he didn't run into any of the boys out here with one of the local girls as he picked his way along the dirt path that wound from the little holiday town down to the lake. He stepped out from the thick screen of tree’s and paused, gazing out at the mountains soaring above the crystal clear waters before looking over at the lithe, straight backed figure standing at the treeline, the dusk sky lighting him up something poetic.

 

 Ron looked over sharply when Carwood came up to him, dragging him out of sight of the path so he could kiss him.

 

“Hello to you too,” Carwood said breathlessly when Ron pulled back.

 

“Come with me,” Ron said, reaching down for Carwood’s hand and pausing when he saw what he was holding. “Why’d you have two bottles of schnapps?”

 

“Temporary confiscation,” he explained, tucking one bottle into the crook of his arm so Ron could take his hand to lead him back into the tree’s to where an army blanket was laid out, a ice bucket for champagne sat on one of the corners.

 

 Carwood hesitated, glancing around the wooded shore. If someone stumbled upon them it wasn't going to be easy to explain why there were sat looking over the picturesque lake at sunset drinking champagne like it was a date.

 

 Ron dropped into a squat next to the bucket, reaching in and pulled out a pint of ice cream, “I had to find a way to keep it cold.”

 

 Carwood looked at the ice cream, then at Ron. “I thought Harry and Nix had already been through the ice box in the hotel?”

 

“Who said it was from the billet.”

 

 Carwood shook his head, settling down the bottles as he dropped to sit cross-legged facing Ron who looked very pleased with himself. He tipped forward onto his knees to place the tub between them, pulling out a pair of spoons that were tucked into the top of his jump boot.

 

“Now the war is over I thought I might…” Ron paused, staring down at the lid before popping it off. "I thought we might have one date at least. I’ve never been on many but I know they tend to involve going for milkshakes or ice cream, picnics, looking at the local scenery and so on.”

 

 That was so very sweet and so very much like Ron that a warm tingle went through Carwood. He was a complicated man who saw the world simply, who dealt in things in their entirety or not at all, and would become very embarrassed if Carwood let him know just how sweet he found this gesture. This attempt to give him everything normal sweethearts got to have all in one go.

 

 Carwood didn’t need this, Ron’s company was more than enough, but he was not about to tell him that either. He held out his hand for one of the fine silver spoons and dug in.

 

“I don’t know,” Ron sighed a little while later around a mouthful of ice cream, “smoking, drinking, and now accepting stolen goods. The army's ruined you, Lieutenant.”

 

“I’ve been taking stolen things off of you for years.”

 

 Ron smiled around the spoon in his mouth like a little kid. “I hope you’re not saying I ruined you.”

 

 Carwood flushed as he thought about how their hands kept wandering under clothes whenever they kissed for any length of time. “Not yet anyways,” he muttered, smiling when Ron laughed.

 

 He took the spoon out of his mouth to stab into the ice cream and shook out a cigarette. “Want one?” Carwood shook his head. “Share it with me?”

 

“Okay.”

 

 Ron lay out with an arm under his head and his ankles crossed, gaze moving to Carwood whenever he handed the cigarette over. “Did you like the Ice-cream?”

 

“Very much. It’s the richest thing I’ve had in months.”

 

“Me too.”

 

“I could tell you enjoyed it,” Carwood said, holding out the cigarette for Ron to take.

 

“Yes. All the more so for sitting out here with you.”

 

 Carwood moved to lay down beside him, propped up on an elbow so he could continue to look out at the sky between the mountains that was streaked with purple's and red's, enjoying the sounds of the birds as they started to sing in the trees. “You were right, it is nice to be outside of the room.”

 

 Ron smoked the cigarette almost all the way down before offering the last bit to Carwood, eyes on him as he tipped his head back to blow out a stream of smoke. “I find it hard to share that bed with you and not make love to you.”

 

 Carwood reached up to stub out the cigarette on the dirt, leaning his head on his hand so he could look at Ron. “I can always take the floor,” that got him a hard side eye, Ron’s hand coming to rest on Carwood’s when he laid it on his stomach. “It’d be alright by me if you did, just so you know.”

 

 Ron was quiet, fingers curling around Carwood's. “I don't want my want to… I won't insult you by saying it might frighten you.”

 

“I'm more than capable of kicking you out of bed.”

 

 That made Ron smile. “You are.”

 

“I've also never been a saint.”

 

 Ron worried his bottom lip before carefully picking up Carwood's hand to press a kiss to the back of it. He almost pulled it back in a flare of embarrassment, Ron freezing for a second before looking up at him.

 

“‘I’m not...I’m not the kind of person whose hands get kissed,” Carwood said softly, flexing his fingers that carried a lot more calluses and scars than when he'd joined up. Whose nails would always be stained by dirt and blood in his mind.

 

 Ron looked down at Carwood's hand, taking it up in both of his so he could run his thumbs from Carwood's knuckles down to his wrist before raising it to his mouth, shutting his eyes tight as he pressed a lingering kiss to it.

 

 Carwood swallowed hard at the depth of feeling Ron put into that gesture, making sure to smile when Ron carefully put his hand back on his stomach and looked up at him. He watched him for a little while, thumb making wide, slow sweeps over Ron's stomach when he leant down to give him a sticky ice cream kiss like he hadn't had since he was seventeen.

 

 They made their way back to their billet at a leisurely place, making the most of the warmth in the air as they admired the way the little town looked all lit up at night. Ron carried the confiscated alcohol because he said it would distract him from wanting to hold Carwood’s hand but their shoulders brushed the whole way back to the billet and up the staircase to their floor.

 

 Ron paused in the doorway as Carwood strode into the room, gaze warm and intense when Carwood turned to him after throwing off his jacket. His hand tightened on the handle, looking about to say something but at that moment Talbert came racing down the corridor covered in blood shouting about Grant being shot.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

 **SS.Queen Mary** **- _1946_**

 

 Britain slipped away slowly at first, then all at once. The dark coast of Ireland sinking into the horizon as they left the continent where they’d spent three years of their lives, where they were leaving so many friends. Men far too young to be buried so very far away from home.

 

 Carwood shook his head; it wouldn’t do to dwell on that. Skip wouldn’t have let that stand.

 

 He knew from the swaggering footsteps and the waft of cigarette smoke that George had come to stand beside him at the Picture Window of what had once been the ship’s lavish dining room. He offered his cigarette and Carwood took it, George letting it sit on his bottom lip when he handed it back. “I’m excited to go home but...feels a bit like I’m leaving some of myself behind.”

 

“I know what you mean.”

 

 They were comfortable to stand quietly, un-bothered by the people bustling around behind them. George let his cigarette burn down and did not light another one.

 

 Ron’s presence was so familiar that Carwood didn’t need to look over when he stepped silently up to his other shoulder, bringing the sharp scent of citrus with him. Carwood glanced over, letting his gaze trail over the curl of his lashes and the line of his cheekbone before looking down to the stolen orange he was peeling, the rind hanging off in one perfect spiral.

 

“Well shit”, George muttered. “I’m seeing it in action.”

 

 Ron looked amused as he pulled the orange apart, reaching across Carwood to hand a piece to George. “So you have a story to tell.”

 

“I’ll make sure to tell my grandkids about the time I survived Captain Speirs giving me an orange.”

 

 Carwood shook his head as he took the piece (largest one he noticed) handed to him, shooting an amused glance at George who looked very smug at the hint of a smile on Ron’s face.

 

 George tipped sideways to lean on one of the art deco columns, Carwood letting his shoulder press against Ron’s as they settled into a companionable silence. They stood like that, mulling over their own thoughts as they looked out towards a Europe that they were leaving shattered but at peace, until Alley’s voice started to call for Carwood from the other side of the room. The three of them turned away, Ron brushing his fingers over his wrist as Carwood went to find out what was wrong, George trailing along behind him.

 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Boston- _1950_**

 

 Ron’s smooth movements lost coordination, breath stuttering over Carwood’s face as his head dropped to hang between his shoulders. He reached out to brace himself against the headboard as it thunked against the wall, fingers twisting into the pillow by Carwood's head. He ran his hands up Ron’s sides to rest on his ribs, fitting his fingers into the divots between them and feeling his low, hitched moan as he started to come. Ron buried his face into Carwood’s shoulder, mouthing at his collarbone between the grunts that sounded forced out of him with every wild rock of his hips.

  
  
 Carwood brushed his lips over Ron’s cheek, soothing him through the momentary loss of control. It made Carwood feel warm all over whenever he thought about how he, his body, was what caused the loss of that legendary composure. Ron was always careful when they did this, smooth and measured and controlled, not treating Carwood like he was breakable but having a care for him. He had whispered to him once, while they were both sweaty and panting and sated, that he would treasure every time Carwood shared himself with him, and Carwood had felt himself near to tears at the emotion in his voice.

 

 Carwood let Ron lay his weight on him when he slumped, spent, running his fingers up his back and into his hair until he felt Ron soften inside him. He gently pushed at his shoulder so he could slip out from under him, pressing a soft kiss to his cheekbone, his lips, a shoulder as he padded into the bathroom.

 

 He didn't let the door close all the way, knowing Ron would get anxious if he couldn't hear him moving around in there. He let the tap run as he cleaned himself up and splashed water on his face, resting his hands on edge of the sink as he leant his forehead against the cold mirror.

 

 It was not that he couldn't look himself in the eye afterwards. He felt neither shame nor less of a man because of it, he never had. Every moan he had ever let out had been genuine, as had every time he had grasped at Ron or sheets in pleasure, every time he had dug his heels into Ron's back to pull him closer.

  

 He had gone to bed with Ron tonight, wrapped his legs around him and encouraged the sharp snap of his hips, knowing that the ache he would feel well into tomorrow would give him something other than this tightness in his chest to think about. He had bought something painful into their love making, a thing he had promised himself years ago he would never do, and he couldn't quite face himself just yet.

 

 Carwood took a deep breath and reached for a towel to wipe down his face when he heard the bathroom door creak open. A rough hand traced down between his shoulder blades to rest on the middle of his back and Carwood turned because even when he could not face himself he would face Ron.

 

 He gently cupped Carwoods cheek, running his thumb over the faded scar there as he looked him deep in the eyes, expression tightening at what he saw there. “I know you didn't forget your word to me Carwood. Dammit you've let me hurt you haven't you?”

 

“No. Of course not,” he rested his hand on Ron’s wrist. “Of course not. I'm being stupid is all.”

 

“You are not stupid,” Ron said like it was a command, sliding his hand around to squeeze the back of Carwood's neck.

 

“I swore myself all the way in Hagenau that I'd never let anything that happened in the war affect how we were, or on when or what we did. And I...”

 

“You let me have you tonight cause I'm going to Korea.”

 

“Christ Ron. No. It's not that. I’m mad at myself ‘cause I let how much I don't want you to go into bed with us.”

 

 Ron very gently kissed him on the lips, letting it linger. “I know. I saw.”

 

“Your last few days here should be good things. I don't want to think about you going over there without any of the boys, I don't want to worry about how when you come back you’ll have gone through things I can’t help you with. I don't want to have to pretend to write our letters to someone else …” he let himself be pulled into a hug. “I'll miss you.”

 

 Ron did not promise to come home to him, he did not promise he would be safe, did not even promise America would win this war. Carwood did not want him to, he knew how good an officer, a soldier, Ron was, and he did not want his instinct to be clouded by trying to keep his word to Carwood.  

 

“I'll miss you too.”

 

 They held one other, soaking up the smell of sex on one another's skin, of their warmth, of the feeling of the other. Carwood squeezed Ron tightly as he kissed the shell of his ear. “I want you again before you go. I don't want tonight to be what I think about when my mind wanders to the bedroom.”

 

 Ron pulled back, cupping Carwoods face as he kissed him with a smile. “I think I can manage that.”

  

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Korea - _1951_**

 

 

_My own SL_

 

_I am writing to you from Japan, our old enemy who is now our friend. It is a country with far more beauty than I expected, and he people are in possession of habits that are very alien to us Americans, but they are polite and decent to a fault and I make a point to repay that with my own courtesy._

_I have enclosed a woodblock print of the native cherry trees that a local was selling as I saw it and thought you would appreciate it._

  _On exciting the docks at Yokosuka the men flock to their local girlfriends while some of the senior officer's wives have come to join them. Although it makes my missing you all the sharper I am glad you are not here. You are my home, my shining light of peace, what I am fighting this war for and what I am fighting it to get back to._

_Also, we might shock more than a few seeing as you are neither my wife nor my girl._

  _I have been offered a course on [ **CENSORED** ] when we win this thing that I am considering taking. I would greatly welcome your opinion as it might lead to my being posted [ **CENSORED** ]. I know you would follow me wherever I went, and so I do not want to take the decision without you._

_I hope our mutual friend Carwood is going well, it is very decent of him to take these letters in for you. I am comforted that his nephew is with him and keeping him company. Robbie sounds like he is growing into a fine boy and I look forward to meeting him some day. I know I already have as an infant but they lack most traits that make up a personality and I find I have not truly met a child until they have grown some._

_I think of you every moment I can, and a few that I should not._

 

_Your own,_

_Ron_  


 

 

                                                                         ++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

 

 

**Boston -  A saturday morning in April _1954_**

 

 You did not come back from war and fall back into your life as easily as the movies would have civilians believe. Ron had not been on the front for most of this war, safely tucked away in HQ’s behind the lines, but he had still needed to adjust to peaceful, civilised life again. To his overly soft bed, the stillness of the apartment, to acclimatise to Carwood’s company again, to the noise of Boston, to love making.

 

 He had not had sex in all the years he had been away and neither, of course, had Carwood. He had been tempted a few times, he was no saint, but it had always been a momentary lapse that he had never tired to hide - and Carwood (who was as close to a saint Ron would get) still loved him anyway.

 

 They were as unfamiliar with letting themselves want as they were the act itself. Their attempts in the months after Ron’s return had all been fumbling, leaving him feeling inadequate and frustrated. Things between them had never been awkward and it felt unnatural now that they were. Ron had even started to hesitate to touch Carwood, stewing on this disconnect until one day Carwood had dug his fingers into the backs of Ron’s knees to startle a laugh out of him and the tension had broken.

 

 This morning had been a long and lazy one, the first they’d had this year without a chill in the air. The first morning Ron had not sat by the fire shivering out of habit after all the Korean winters - like so many Bastogne’s - he had been through. He was sprawled out against the end of the couch in a patch of sunlight, entranced by Carwood doing something as banal as sorting through this month’s receipts.

 

 He was sat crossed legged on the floor opposite Ron, wearing soft flannel pyjama bottoms and an undershirt, casually swathed the robe that was made from the silk Ron had sent back from Korea. He looked like everything Ron had never thought he could ever have let alone manage to keep. Of everything Ron had thought of on the times his mind had wandered to his return home.

 

 He pinched out the cigarette he had half smoked and left it in the ashtray set on the floor next to him, dropping onto his hands and knees to crawl across the small space between them. Carwood's dark eyes watched his approach, expression going from unreadable to a delightful mix of exasperated pleasure as he realised Ron meant to kiss him soundly. He still made a noise of surprise when Ron did, hand on his cheek and the other possessively at Carwood’s throat as he licked into his mouth. Pencil and papers were dropped to become creased between them as Carwood cupped Ron’s face, letting himself be gently pushed until he was flat on his back on the carpet.

 

 Carwood hooked a foot over Ron’s leg to hold him close, heel stroking teasingly over the back of the thigh Ron slipped between his own. He pressed his hips down, rocking slightly against the crease where Carwood's leg met his hip, body remembering how to move like a lover, not a soldier.

 

 

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> SL= Second Lieutenant, cause Ron is a dweeb.
> 
> The Walter Scott book mentioned is Waverley, if anyone is interested.
> 
> Ao3: Has a bajillion fics like this  
> Me: What if I...wrote a fic like this.  
> Me two months later:...what if I did it again.


End file.
